


Temporary

by Eligh



Category: Marvel, Marvel 616, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: And Lots of It, Clint Barton Has Issues, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, M/M, Misunderstandings, Sex, get-together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 07:18:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13161996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eligh/pseuds/Eligh
Summary: Clint will gladly be a short-term sexual diversion for Coulson. That's all Coulson would surely want, right?





	Temporary

The day Coulson kissed him for the first time, it was four years—not quite to the day, but damn close enough that it almost felt like an anniversary present—after Clint had been recruited to shoot for SHIELD.

He had the wherewithal to know that most handlers weren’t going around kissing their assets, but, well… sometimes people wanted things, consequences be damned. And Clint didn’t _blame_ Coulson—he wasn’t _blind_ , he knew what his ass looked like in his tac suit—and it wasn’t Coulson’s fault that Clint was mess of abandonment and trust issues, not to mention being head over heels for a certain type of older man in a sharp suit, and so, hey. He’d take what he could get, even if it was only going to be a temporary thing.

‘Cause the thing is, Clint sees everything. It’s his job, right? It’s the reason SHIELD brought him on instead of putting a bullet where he deserved it, and so Clint’s seen the subtle cues that Coulson’s partners give off, the types he beds. They’re to a person beautiful, talented, whip-smart men and women, always at the top of their field, always competent and smooth as fuck, and they always look dazed and sated wandering off after a night in Coulson’s hotel room or bunk or, more rarely, his apartment.

And Clint? Well, the current running tally had Clint falling off a building last week, accidentally starting that fire in R&D, setting off four separate sets of metal detectors in one government building with all the damn pins in his varying appendages, and his nose has been broken for going on three months because he keeps getting punched in the face. Besides, Clint uses a bow and arrow to fight his battles, and the last lady to press a kiss to Coulson’s cheek designed and built a futzin’ _lightsaber_. There was a _battle_. On the _roof_ of a _quinjet._ With actual, laser-y, flaming _swords_ , and who the hell was Clint to compete with that?

So, yeah: he wasn’t delusional. It was the ass in the leather suit, not the personal skills.

It wasn’t so bad, anyway… he knew that Coulson liked him, maybe even respected him—or respected his talents, at least, which was close enough to the same thing—and so, hey. It could be worse. At least now Clint knew what Coulson’s mouth felt like, could remember the pressure of Coulson’s hands on his hips. Maybe if he was lucky, he’d get to find out what it felt like when Coulson pushed inside him, or even what it felt like to get one of those broad hands wrapped around his cock. Clint was sure it would be great, no matter what.

It’d kill him when Coulson inevitably got bored, or found a better partner, one of the scientist/adventurer/professional badasses more befitting a man like him, but Clint was good at being a warm body for someone waiting for their someone else.

~

“Agent Barton, with me,” Coulson said, appearing like the angel of the mess hall and thankfully rescuing Clint from an awful, _awful_ conversation with Janice from Accounting. He smiled ruefully, and Janice shrugged, putting away her phone and its accompanying pictures of her father’s goiter, which—no. Clint happily abandoned his meatloaf and trotted toward Coulson and was—hey, good day—greeted with one of those small secret smiles that Coulson saved up and bestowed only upon the worthy. Nevermind that Clint wasn’t sure that he was technically worthy; Coulson seemed to think so, and Clint wasn’t about to discourage him.

“Hey, sir. Can I help? You got a mission for me?”

“Of a sort,” Coulson said, a near imperceptible smirk ghosting over his lips for a moment. “Let’s discuss this in my office.” He glanced over at Janice, who was watching them with interest. “Level four clearance at least, I’d think,” he said just loudly enough to make Janice flush and look down at her tray in front of her. Coulson didn’t say anything further, but he did touch briefly at the small of Clint’s back, guiding him out of the mess. Clint suppressed a shiver.

“So what’s with all the hush?” Clint asked once they’d reached Coulson’s office and the door had been unlocked, Phil blinking away the light shined in for the retinal scan. Missions were usually assigned in a meeting room with at least fifteen bureaucrats sticking their fingers in Clint’s fun, so this one had to be a doozy.

“Hm?” Coulson said, closing the door behind them, and then shook his head slightly. “Oh, no mission—Fury still wants you on deck for the Uruguay thing. Give it a day or two.” He clicked the lock on the door and smiled a little. “I found myself with some free time, and then when I saw you, I—” he stopped, cleared his throat, and looked down briefly before lifting his head and meeting Clint’s eyes. “Well. You looked like you wanted to gouge your eyes out with a fork, which is really saying something.”  

“Janice’s eyes, maybe,” Clint said, huffing out a laugh. “Mine’re too pretty for that kinda mess.” He crossed the office and flopped down lengthwise on Coulson’s couch, crossing his arms behind his head against the armrest. And when he looked back to Coulson, he was met with a gaze darkened and heavy. “Oh,” he said, light bulb clicking on. “ _Oh_.”

“Well you’re not lying,” Coulson muttered, already advancing.

“Lying?” Clint asked, but Coulson was too busy to answer, sinking to his knees by Clint’s head and claiming his mouth in a heated kiss. He pushed in his tongue like Clint’s mouth was his—Clint wasn’t about to disabuse that notion, no sir—and grabbed the back of Clint’s head, angling him just so, just how he wanted him.

Clint somehow managed to suppress a needy whimper but then gasped when Coulson clambered up—somehow graceful no matter the situation—and straddled Clint’s hips. Clint bucked up slightly under the pressure, but Coulson just grinned and pressed down, heavy and grounding and with sure fingers unbuckling the shoulder holster Clint hadn’t ditched after this morning’s waste-of-his-time firearms recert. The gun was deposited gently on a nearby end table, and then Coulson was back, pressing his fingers down just hard enough to not be ticklish up Clint’s ribs, over his chest, cupping his chin and the back of his neck, burying in his hair.

“You, Agent,” Coulson murmured, ducking his head and biting quickly, lightly at Clint’s jaw, “are overdressed.”

“Says the man in the suit,” Clint groaned. He couldn’t figure out where to settle his hands, ghosting them over Coulson’s waist, his back, his _ass_ —and shuddering when Coulson just smirked and backed off slightly before he flicked open the button of Clint’s pants. Clint’s cock was wrapped a moment later in Coulson’s broad palm, his gun calluses catching rough just like Clint liked it, and Clint wasn’t able to quell the whimper this time.

“You like that?” Coulson asked him, blue eyes intent on Clint’s face. Clint stared up at him, already panting as the press of Coulson’s hand got slicker with every stroke, and nodded belatedly. The smirk that had graced Coulson’s face so far during this encounter gentled, turning softer, more intimate, and suddenly Clint couldn’t look at him anymore, because—well, that was the sort of look only a person better than him deserved.

And so he stared down at his cock in Coulson’s hand instead, noting with anticipation the hard line outlined in Coulson’s pressed slacks in close proximity to other, current activities, and tried to keep breathing.

A moment, two, and then Coulson urged his face up again, kissing his temple, his cheek, and then claiming Clint’s mouth when he obligingly tilted his head up. Coulson didn’t let up stroking Clint’s cock, which was starting to get painful in its hardness, and was now dripping a steady stream of precome. “M’gonna,” Clint managed eventually, gasping in a break when Coulson leaned back a little to watch the show, and that thought—that Coulson might want to _see_ what he’d done—

“Ohgod,” Clint sighed, and came all over his stomach. They’d barely shifted his clothes around past the inevitable dishevelment that comes from Sex On A Couch, and so he made a mess of his t-shirt and his pants both.

“Good,” Coulson said, sounding breathless, and wiped his hand on Clint’s shirt, which—yeah, alright. It was ruined already. “Clint, that—Clint.” He learned down and kissed Clint again, softer than he had so far today. Clint kissed back dazedly, but as higher functions resumed he got with the program, gentling the kiss further until he could disengage and slide out from under Coulson’s weight on the couch. “What—” Coulson asked, but then cut off in understanding as Clint landed on his knees next to the couch and tugged at his hips.

There was some quick shuffling—Clint whipped his soiled shirt off over his head and hitched his pants up a little so they didn’t fall down off his ass, while Coulson spread his legs with his knees on either side of Clint’s chest—and then Clint was unzipping him and diving in, pushing down practical cotton boxer-briefs and finding himself face-to-face—so to speak—with nine inches of flushed, hard, Coulson.

“Yes please,” he murmured, already fantasizing about what that cock would feel like buried in his ass, and above him, Coulson laughed softly.

“You don’t have t—”

Clint cut him off by licking a broad stripe up the length of him, culminating in a soft suckle of the flushed, dripping head, and Coulson rocked his hips up and his head back on the sofa cushions. “Yeah,” he breathed, one hand coming up to thumb at the swell of Clint’s cheek, and Clint glanced up at him before opening his throat and taking him down. “Like that,” Coulson murmured, so Clint gave him a little suction before really going to town.

It didn’t take long before Coulson was swearing a steady stream of near-inaudible invective over his head, curling in and holding tight to Clint’s hair, to the back of Clint’s neck. “I’m going to come,” Coulson said eventually, sounding just the right amount of strangled when Clint took him down fully, Coulson’s cockhead pressing deep against the back of his throat. “Barton,” he said, more warning in his voice this time, and tapped a couple fingers gently on the back of Clint’s head. “Clint, I’m—”

Clint responded by sucking in hard, one hand busy with massaging Coulson’s balls, the other clinging desperately to Coulson’s hip, and he had a split second of feeling the tension snap in those strong hips before Coulson punched out a hard breath and came, most of it going straight down his throat, a bit filling his mouth when Clint pulled back and licked up the side of Coulson’s dick.

“Good, sir?” he asked after swallowing the last spurts, and lord but his voice sounded wrecked; gravel and thick and well-fucked. Coulson stared down at him with wide eyes, and eventually found it in his wheelhouse to give a short, shaky nod.

“Ve-ry,” he managed after a moment, and Clint reveled for a few seconds in the shocked, panting aftermath that he’d managed to engineer.

Clint nodded back and smiled, bringing up one hand to pat affectionately at Coulson’s thigh. “We’ll have to do it again sometime,” he said, and Coulson’s eyes went hooded.

“Yes, we will,” he said simply, and Clint grinned.

~

About a month later—a several further blowjobs down—Coulson put a hand on Clint’s shoulder and edged slightly away, his brow furrowed. They were in Antwerp, the mission was over, and Clint? Clint wanted to blow off some steam.

“You don’t have to,” Coulson said, and Clint could hear the thread of worry in his voice. “You were blown out of an airplane earlier today.”

Clint blinked up at him from where he’d already sunk to his knees next to the sofa, and—well, so his ribs were aching and his jaw did actually kinda hurt a little, but— “Just don’t want you getting bored, sir,” he said, and he was mostly joking. Well. Maybe fifty percent.

Coulson’s frown deepened, and he reached down, grabbing hold of Clint’s elbow and levering him up so that they were both perched on the edge of the cushions. “I’m not—” and one corner of Phil’s mouth twitched up. “I’m not bored, Clint. You’re not—don’t think that.” He paused. “You don’t think that, right?”

Well. No, he wouldn’t be bored _yet_ , but it’s just been a month. Clint’s seen him go longer spells than that, and if he’s getting it on the regular—and Clint’s making _sure_ he’s getting it on the regular—then Clint’s probably got a few more weeks at least. And he’s totally willing to distract Coulson for a few more weeks, which is _why_ —“I don’t think you’re bored, no,” Clint said carefully. “But I was just, y’know. Looking forward to you fucking my face.” He grinned, even though it hurt his jaw to do so.

Because, see, if he said ‘no’ one of these nights, one of these adrenaline-high, post-mission nights, then, well, Coulson _would_ get bored, and those weeks Clint was looking forward to would cut off. Coulson would move on, and Clint didn’t want that. He wanted to hold on as long as humanly possible.

But that might not have been the right answer after all, ‘cause now Coulson was looking at him, his eyes slightly narrowed. Clint tried to smile disarmingly, but then couldn’t…quite… get the grin, what with the bruising on his jaw and all that. Coulson, though, seemed okay with it, because he reached out and ran his fingers lightly along Clint’s cheek, over the line of his jaw, and then pushed lightly—“ _Ow_ ,” Clint whined, and then stilled.

“No face-fucking,” Coulson said dryly, and Clint sighed. Set his back a little, took a measured breath. This would be it, then—he wouldn’t be useful, so Coulson would go find someone else.

But then: “Come on,” Coulson said, rising from the couch and holding out his hand. And when Clint just stared at him, he cocked his head, wiggling his fingers a little, _come here_. “Clint,” he said. “Come on, you’ve got to be sore. Let me give you a massage or something.”

A—what? Clint stared at Coulson for a long moment, but then shrugged and reached up, taking the hand that was offered and pulling himself off the sofa. “Okay,” he said. “I mean, if you want, sir.”

He almost missed the eye roll that accompanied his words, but then Coulson was tugging him toward the safehouse’s bedroom and saying over his shoulder, “You know, I know it’s habit, but really you should stop calling me that when we’re not on duty.”

“Uh,” Clint said, ever the picture of eloquence. “’Kay. Um. Coulson.” They’d reached the bedroom, and Coulson had turned to face him, the backs of his knees hitting the bed, his hands drifting up to settle low on Clint’s hips. Clint mirrored his hand placement, and Coulson tugged a little, bringing their hips together, their chests brushing. He was warm, a little sunburnt in the cheeks from the mission, and his tie was crooked. Clint looked down Coulson’s chest and tightened his grip on his hips.

“Phil,” Coulson said, sounding amused. “Don’t be obtuse, Clint. When we’re together, you gotta call me Phil.”

Clint stared at Coulson’s tie and flexed his jaw. That was—awfully familiar for what they were doing. He took a breath. It’d be fine; he could just… go back to calling him Coulson when this whole thing… moved on. It’d be fine. Fine. Okay.

“Alright, Phil,” he said, and if his voice was a little lower than usual, all it did was make Coulson smile and angle in, brushing his lips over Clint’s cheek, lingering for a gentle moment over the bruise on his jaw.

“C’mon,” Coulson said, pulling back a little. He was smiling softly. “Let’s get you naked. I promised you a massage.”

Clint huffed a breath and smiled back—he could do this, it was just… this was probably what it was with all of Coulson’s partners. It made sense, after all. He was this giving, fucking awesome guy. He probably gave out massages like candy. And so Clint stepped back another step and stripped out of his shirt in one (not entirely smooth, but there were those whole ‘bruised ribs’ things going on) movement, and then popped the button of his jeans.

“Let me,” Coulson said, stepping closer again and hooking his fingers in Clint’s belt loops. Clint raised his hands to give him some room to work, and Coulson peeled his pants down and off, tapping gently at each calf in turn to get Clint to lift his legs. He pulled his socks off, too, while each foot was lifted. “Do you want your briefs on or off?” he asked, once he was kneeling in front of Clint on the floor.

Clint’s cock twitched at the sight, and his already tight boxer-briefs suddenly felt much more snug. “Um,” he said. “O-off?”

Coulson smirked at him and obligingly pulled them down, pausing long enough to eye Clint’s cock, which cooperatively filled a little more under his gaze. He flicked his eyes up to meet Clint’s, and Clint flushed, embarrassed. Coulson just watched him for a moment, and then leaned in, kissing low on Clint’s hip, right where the muscle led in a line down to his groin. Clint punched out a breath, suddenly dizzy.

But then Coulson was standing, burying his fingers in Clint’s hair, and kissing him hard. He was still fully dressed, and Clint whimpered when Coulson’s buttery-smooth silk tie brushed against his chest. “On the bed,” Coulson said, pulling back again. Clint, unable to do anything else, collapsed in a puddle on the bed, moving obligingly when Coulson urged him to lie down on his front.

Nothing could stop him from watching though, as Coulson stepped to the side and shrugged out of his suit jacket, hanging it carefully on the back of a desk chair, and then rolled up his sleeves, baring his forearms. They were strong, covered in a dark smattering of hair, and Clint couldn’t help it—he reached under himself and adjusted his dick, pointing it up so it could have some room to, er, expand, if needed.

Coulson saw the movement, obviously, and smirked again. He toed off his shined oxfords and asked, “Would you prefer if I was more undressed?”

Clint nodded, finding himself rather unable to speak. Coulson looked pleased and carefully unbuttoned his shirt, leaving it hanging open at the ends in favor of moving straight down and unzipping his trousers. He stripped efficiently after that, toeing off his socks, stepping out of his pants and laying them carefully flat, shrugging out of his shirt and hanging it with his jacket. It left him in a white t-shirt undershirt and black boxers, and that, apparently, was where he planned on stopping. Clint made a soft noise of disappointment, but Coulson just raised an eyebrow.

“It’s a massage, Clint, not a striptease.”

Clint swallowed hard. “Good massages end happily,” he said, feeling brave. Coulson just smirked again and headed into the en suite bathroom.

“We’ll see,” he said, his voice floating out of the bathroom, just as amused as he’d been since they landed in the safe house. There was some clinking, rustling—looking for some sort of oil or lotion, probably. After a moment, he emerged with a bottle of baby oil in one hand, and a utilitarian lotion pump in the other. “Baby oil or—” he peered at the lotion “—shea butter?”

“Shea butter,” Clint said quickly. He had no interest in smelling like a baby’s butt, thanks. Coulson smiled at him, softer this time than the smirk that’s been pretty much cemented on his face so far this evening, and then the next thing Clint knew, Coulson was kneeling next to him on the bed and his hands were flat on the planes of Clint’s back, sliding easily and firmly down, spreading the lotion and warming him up.

Clint opened his mouth to say something—the more full of innuendo, the better—but found himself at a loss. Coulson’s hands were, well, shit. Magic. After a long few moments where Coulson just seemed to be spreading the lotion over Clint’s back, he dug in, careful to avoid—or at least gentle over—the sore spots on Clint’s ribs. He found a knot in Clint’s left shoulder that pretty much lived there, and worked at it—just enough pressure, just enough heat—and then another at the base of his spine, another in the meat of his right shoulder.

“Fuuhh,” Clint breathed hard, not quite sure honestly if he was trying to say Coulson’ name, or just swear. “Jeezus, Coulson, you’re—” blunt nails scraped lightly up Clint’s spine, a hint of a reprimand, though Coulson, perched above him, said nothing. “Phil,” he hastily amended. “Phil, this’s fuckin’ amazing.” He was slurring his words a little, his eyes drifting shut, and he smiled a little when Coulson chuckled, low and warm.

“I went undercover as a massage therapist when I was a baby agent. And it’s a useful skill to have—you never know when a massage is needed in the field.” There was some shifting—a shrug, if Clint knew his handler. “And so I kept it up.” There was a pause, and then he leaned down, brushing his chest against Clint’s back, his lips near Clint’s ear. “You mind if I switch positions a little?”

“You do wha’ever position y’want, babe,” Clint murmured, unthinking. “’m good with anything.”

There was another pause, this one just long enough that Clint’s sleepy brain kicked back on with a wary warning light, but then Coulson was climbing onto the bed, slinging one leg over Clint’s back, and settling with a quiet ‘oomph’ on his thighs. The move placed his cock—which was half-hard, Clint noted idly—right up against the swell of Clint’s ass, and Clint’s brain woke up a little more.

“Hey,” he said as Coulson’s hands went back to work, sliding up and down, mesmerizing. Clint wiggled his ass a little, bumping into the firm bulge that was resting right…there. “You could do something about that, y’know. If you wanted.”

Coulson’s hands didn’t slow. “This is supposed to be a massage, Clint. No sex necessary.”

“I didn’t say anything about _necessary_ ,” Clint said pointedly. “Just. If you wanted.”

Coulson’s hands did falter for a moment then, and he cleared his throat before backing off a little, though he was still straddled over the back of Clint’s thighs. “Hey, look at me for a second?” he asked. Clint obligingly pushed up on his elbow and twisted sideways, looking back over his shoulder to where Coulson was watching him carefully, chewing on his bottom lip. “Would you really want to?” he asked once Clint had met his eyes.

“Well,” Clint said, a little confused, “yeah. I mean. I only figured you hadn’t fucked me yet ‘cause we’ve been screwing around in the office, mostly.” Which was true, but judging by the split-second of—of something—that crossed Coulson’s face, maybe wasn’t the best thing to point out.

“Screwing,” Coulson said softly, but then shook his head and lifted up off Clint’s legs. “Hey, turn over.”

“Kay…” Clint said, matching actions to Coulson’s request. Once he was lying on his back, though, Coulson just slid his legs down, pressing Clint into the mattress from knees to chest, and kissed softly at his jaw. “Okay,” Clint said again, happier this time, and brought his arms up around Coulson’s back, shifting a little so that their dicks were lined up. “I like this.”

“Good,” Coulson murmured, and claimed Clint’s mouth, his tongue sliding in, possessive and needy. His hands, made soft from the lotion, were roaming Clint’s chest, rubbing gently at his nipples, sliding down and holding onto his hip, up to bury in his hair.

“C-Phil,” Clint said, already breathless when Coulson pulled back to suck small marks into the flesh of Clint’s pectoral. Coulson made a soft interrogatory noise and Clint swallowed hard, clearing his throat. “Please, I—I want you—to—ah!”

“Want me to what, Clint?” Coulson asked, his voice practically a purr though he didn’t lift his mouth off of where he’d fastened it around Clint’s nipple.

“Fuck me,” Clint managed after a long— _long_ —moment. “Please, I want you inside me.”

Coulson moaned and slid to one side, dropping one hand down and grasping hold of the back of Clint’s thigh, urging him to put his foot flat on the bed and to give him access—there was a click of the lotion pump, and then slick fingers slid down Clint’s balls, unerring in finding his target. Clint gasped, and Coulson took that as opportunity to kiss him again.

Clint was already relaxed enough from the massage that prep was simple—it only took a few minutes before Coulson was up to three fingers, sliding back and forth in a mess of what was probably far too much lotion. “You think you’re ready for me?” Coulson asked, low and hungry, and Clint nodded quickly. There was suddenly nothing he wanted more than to have Coulson spread out over him, pressing in.

“Okay,” Coulson murmured. “Okay, Clint.” He pushed Clint flat and then he was there, somehow managing to have wiggled out of his boxers when Clint wasn’t looking, but still wearing that t-shirt. He didn’t hesitate, spreading Clint’s legs with his hips and pushing his way in, his mouth working at Clint’s jaw. “God,” he said, sounding strangled. Clint utterly understood the sentiment.

The last coherent movement Clint made was to rip—literally—that stupid shirt off; he needed to feel Coulson’s skin against him. Coulson, to his credit, just laughed and then spent the next thirty minutes bullying Clint around the bed, putting his legs where he wanted them, lifting Clint’s hips to get a better angle, urging Clint to wrap his legs around his waist, to turn over, to ride him, to kiss him.

And Clint couldn’t help it—he _loved_ it, loved this, (loved Phil) loved those strong hands urging him over, loved them wrapping around his cock, in his hair, everything. He came on his hands and knees, Coulson stretched out over his back and panting, Coulson’s fingers pressing just right under the flare of his head, perfect, perfect.

~

“Here,” Coulson said, serious and sneaky as a motherfucker, magicing out of his rain jacket a container of grilled pork noodles from that pho place they liked. Clint made grabby hands, reaching out best he could while in freaking traction. Coulson inclined an eyebrow but unearthed chopsticks, too, so Clint probably wasn’t being too pathetic.

“Oh muh goh,” Clint said a full minute later, around a shoved-full mouth of noodles, and Coulson nodded sagely, carefully dragging around and positioning the visitor’s chair so that it blocked most of the door’s view of the bed. “Thif if,” Clint swallowed his over-full mouthful. “Fuckin’ heaven, Phil. Thank you.”

A tiny smile twitched across Coulson’s lips before he sobered, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms, watching Clint eat. “No problem,” he said after a moment. “Just—” he paused and cleared his throat. “No problem at all.”

Clint froze with a strip of bok choy halfway to his mouth. He didn’t like that tone. That tone meant that someone had pissed off SHIELD’s most un-piss-off-able agent, and Clint, currently with left leg in traction, cracked ribs, and a goose egg on his head the size of Texas, was not thrilled with the fact that he may have been the one to get Coulson’s ire up.

“Um,” he said, and put down the pork. He swallowed hard and thought fast. Playing professional was probably the best course of action here. “You angry at me, sir?”

Coulson’s eyes, which had been focused sightlessly at something on the far wall of the hospital room, snapped toward him, and he frowned. “What? No. You—” He shuffled in his seat a little, his crossed arms tightening in on themselves. “I’m. Worried.” And then he sighed and unfolded, rubbing one hand over his eyes before reaching out and touching the back of Clint’s hand. “I don’t like seeing you in here, Clint. I don’t want you hurt.”

Clint opened his mouth to point out the near-constant parade of hospital rooms he rotated through, but Coulson made a soft noise of negation and so he stopped himself.

“I know you get hurt often, though,” Coulson went on. “And I’d tell you to be careful, but I know that’s not what you do—you don’t think, which on anyone else would drive me past the point of insubordination but—” He smiled. “You saved that family, Clint. You got them all out. Hell, you even got the dog. So no, I’m not angry. I’m proud—I’m so damn proud of you, Clint, of the man I—” He smiled, then, and Clint laced their fingers together because that smile was a little watery, and because he could, and because he loved Coulson, even if Coulson was just—proud of his asset.

“Thanks, sir,” Clint said quietly. “And I do try to be careful.”

Coulson huffed out am incredulous breath but still smiled at him again, an honest flash of happiness that spread into Clint’s chest when Coulson leaned forward and caught him in a gentle kiss. “Maniac,” Coulson said fondly, and kissed him one more time before pulling away.

“Eat your food before the nurses make me throw it out,” he ordered gently, clearing his throat and looking at the ceiling. Clint grinned at him once more before squeezing his fingers and then releasing them in favor of noodles and chopsticks.

~

“Do you think,” Coulson’s disembodied voice said softly into Clint’s ear—Clint twitched, but didn’t move from his menacing against the far wall of the ceremony room—“that they come up with new procedures just to piss Nick off?” Not an official comm, then.

Clint clicked his tongue twice against the roof of his mouth, a near-silent ‘come again?’ that would transmit through the earwig. He watched as yet another politician stepped up to the dais, and as Fury’s face clouded a hair more.

“It’s just,” Coulson went on, sounding thoughtful, “that the length of these idiot presentations have tripled since I was the one playing the muscle.”

Clint blinked, suddenly wishing desperately that he was allowed to talk. When had Coulson played the muscle for the WSC? Had to have been before Clint’s time at SHIELD—there was no way he wouldn’t have known about it, otherwise.

“Which means this,” Coulson continued, now sounding a sort of smug that set off an alarm dinging in Clint’s head, “is going to be triply as difficult for you as it was when it happened to me.”

Clint licked his lips and worried. _Clic_ —one tongue click, a silent ‘no’ for the comms. In response, Coulson laughed lowly. “Admittedly,” he said, his voice low, “I think Jaz’s verbal harassment over the comms was far more innocent than what I plan to do to you. His goal was to make me laugh, after all.” A pause, during which Clint worked very hard to keep the panic off his face. “My goal,” Coulson went on, “is far more—”

Clint coughed hard, covering his mouth and hiding the ‘ _Stop it_ ,’ he muttered under his breath. Across the meeting room, Nick looked over at him, an eyebrow raised. The politician blathered on, unperturbed.

“It would be inappropriate,” Coulson said, sounding immeasurably smug. “Talking about how much I enjoyed bending you over Lola’s hood last weekend, I mean. Reminiscing about how good you looked, bare-assed and shaking, your legs spread, the butt of that plug peeking out from between your ass cheeks…”

Clint coughed again and shifted his hands from parade rest behind his back to parade rest in front of his crotch. Nick wasn’t even pretending to watch the politician anymore, and had instead narrowed his eye suspiciously in Clint’s direction.

“That would be mean,” Coulson said, sounding resigned. “I mean, as enjoyable as it is for me—I’m sitting in my office, by the way, with the door locked—as enjoyable as it is for me to think about how I played with the plug while fucking you between your thighs, it has to be just torturous for you.”

Clint cleared his throat and lifted his hand to his left ear, feigning intense concentration. He carefully left his other hand strategically positioned. “You’re evil,” he muttered without moving his lips, so quiet it was nearly a subvocalization. “Nick is _watching_ me.”

“So I shouldn’t tell you about how I’ve got my pants shoved down and my cock in my hand?” Coulson asked, sounding far too innocent for the filth coming out of his mouth. “How I’m dripping? You don’t want to hear about the finger I have in my ass?”

“Jesus,” Clint said, and Agent Quartermain, who was sitting nearest him, looked over, eyebrows raised. ‘ _Nothing_ ’ Clint mouthed at him, and Clay rolled his eyes before slouching slightly and looking back at the podium. The politician seemed to be wrapping up, thank everything holy.

There was a slight pause, and then Clint heard labored breath, a quiet _schlick_ of what was doubtlessly a hand moving over lube-slicked skin, and that thought—Coulson fucking himself to thoughts of what they’d done over the weekend—well, that was it. Clint pushed off the wall and strode purposefully from the meeting room, steadfastly ignoring Nick’s disbelieving gaze, the slight pause from the politician. He’d pay for being rude later, but Coulson was going to pay _now_.

He was at Coulson’s door one tense elevator ride and two hallways later, and had picked the lock in another thirty seconds. Coulson looked up, a slow smile spreading on his face when Clint slammed through the door, kicking it shut behind him. “Took you long enough,” he said, and Clint shook his head.

“When I said you could talk dirty to me on comms—”

“You said whenever,” Coulson defended, rising from where he’d been sitting behind his desk. He was grinning like the cat that caught the fucking canary, and looked just as disheveled as Clint had been picturing, his pants around his knees, his cock hanging hard and heavy between his legs. Clint took a sharp breath and advanced on him, unbuttoning his fly as he went.

“You’re an asshole,” he murmured, rounding the desk and pressing Coulson up against it, claiming his mouth before he could get another word out. Coulson kissed back just as fiercely—biting Clint’s lips and grabbing hard at his ass, bringing their groins together and grinding.

“You love it,” he said, and Clint wasn’t about to argue that. Instead he shuffled his clothes around to drop his pants and boxers, get them lined up, stroke— “C’mon, Clint,” Coulson said. “I didn’t go through all that work fingering myself to end this with a handjob.” And then he turned around, pressing his bare ass against Clint’s cock and bending slightly over the desk.

Clint’s brain short-circuited. “Y-you-you want me to—” He’d frozen, hands tight on Phil’s hips, staring down, unable to even begin to comprehend this turn of events. Coulson didn’t get fucked, Coulson did the fucking. Which was great, which was perfect; Clint loved Coulson inside him, loved every second of every moment they spent together, but this—this—

This was what partners did. Boyfriends. People who had a reciprocal relationship where they both loved and trusted each other, and Clint wasn’t—he wasn’t prepared for this. This was just fucking for Coulson, and his heart—Clint’s heart couldn’t take it.

“I can’t,” he said, he heard himself saying. Distant, detached. He backed away, and Coulson turned, every hint of teasing sexiness gone, worry clear on his face.

“Clint?” he asked, his voice soft. “Hey, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—” he hitched up his pants and Clint couldn’t get enough air. He needed to get out. Get away. He had his pants up and buttoned and was out the door in three seconds flat, his comms unit abandoned on Coulson’s desk, the door slammed shut behind him.

~

Coulson found him less than an hour later, probably because Clint hadn’t made himself very hard to find. The roof of the Manhattan safehouse had a great sunset view, and was probably the first place Coulson looked, actually. He should have hidden better.

Coulson settled silently next to him on the roof, swinging his legs over the edge of the building, exactly mimicking Clint’s haphazard grip over the drop to infinity. Clint stared at him for a long moment, and then grumbled, “Hey, get away from the edge, c’mon, you’re making me nervous.”

“You first,” Coulson countered. Clint rolled his eyes but obeyed, backing away from the edge and retreating to the low bench someone had stuck up here, a good ten feet back from the drop. Coulson followed him gamely, his hands stuck in the pockets of his suit, his brow creased thoughtfully. He didn’t sit.

“I can’t do this,” Clint said eventually, staring down at his clasped hands, and only after the silence had drawn out itchily long. “I can’t fuck you and—” he bit his lip. “I can’t.”

Coulson said nothing for a long moment, but then blew out a gusty sigh and plopped down next to Clint on the bench. “I’m in love with you,” he said, like it was the fucking weather, and Clint turned his head, staring disbelievingly at him. He was fucking crazy— _what_ —no he didn’t.

“No, you—”

“Clint,” Coulson said, his voice full of reproach. “In retrospect, I see where I went wrong. I should have said from the beginning, but we were so—compatible—and I was swept up in the honeymoon of it all, and I was just so happy that you wanted to be with me, seemingly as much as I wanted to be with you, that I just didn’t—I didn’t think. And for that, I’m sorry.”

Clint turned and stared out at the setting sun ahead of them. Purples and blues and— “You don’t date. Anyone. You have flings, you’re… kind. But it’s never. Long-term.”

Coulson shrugged. “What would be the point of dating someone seriously when every time I took someone to bed, I imagined they were you?” He turned and picked up Clint’s suddenly boneless hand. “Those couple months ago, when I snapped and kissed you on the range, after you’d broken our highest record by a magnitude no one thought was humanly possible—you kissed me back. I never thought you would, and you did, and so I didn’t—I didn’t question it.”

He looked down, lacing their fingers together. Clint let him, unsure from where this melting, gooey feeling his chest was emanating. “I thought that you understood you were my—” Coulson hesitated. “My boyfriend. Partner. Whatever you’d like to call it. But we didn’t talk about it, and we should have. If you—” another hesitation. “If you want—and _only_ if you want—I would like to make it official. Submit the paperwork. My lease for my current place is up in a couple months, and at that time, I would like to move in together.”

Clint looked at him. His eyes felt itchy, and he was vaguely aware that his breath was hitching. Coulson—Phil, the man who apparently loved him—grabbed hold of his other hand and drew them to his chest. “I would like to marry you, Clint. Someday. Not today, I’m not asking today—I think I’ve put enough pressure on you for the time being.” He tugged gently at Clint’s hands, and obligingly, Clint moved closer. Phil leaned in and gently kissed his cheek, a gentle press of promise.

“I went about this all wrong,” Phil said softly. “Let my libido get ahead of my head. I should’ve taken you out, courted you, shown you how much I love you—”

“Phil,” Clint whispered. “Phil, I love you too.”

Phil smiled. “I’m glad. I’m glad I—” he looked momentarily unsure. “I’m—I didn’t ruin—”

“No, no, no,” Clint reassured him. He leaned in and rested his forehead on Phil’s shoulder. “You didn’t ruin anything. I just wasn’t—I’m not.” He swallowed hard, and Phil shifted, pressing his cheek against Clint’s head.

“Come home with me?” he asked. “We could… watch a movie. You could let me make you dinner.”

“Okay,” Clint said thickly. He swallowed again, fighting back tears. Phil—Phil wanted him. Wanted him for more than his ass. It was unbelievable—would be unbelievable except for how Phil was wrapped around him, pressing soft kisses into his hairline. “Okay,” Clint said again, and disentangled them, rising and holding his hand out for Phil to grasp hold.

“Good,” Phil said, taking his hand. He pulled Clint into a kiss the moment they were both standing, wrapping tight around him, tilting his head and claiming him, kissing him—now that Clint realized it—in exactly the same way he had the first time they’d done this, full of possession and longing and—yeah, cheesy as it was—love.

~

_One Year Later_

~

“Clint—god—oh, Clint—”

Clint hooked his chin over Phil’s shoulder and eyed Phil’s hands grasped hard against the headboard of their bed, watched the progression of his own hand down Phil’s stomach and groin, wrapped his fingers around the straining cock he found there, and pumped a few long, leisurely strokes in time with his hips pushing in, driving deep into the heat of Phil’s ass.

“Yeah, like that, babe,” he growled as Phil flexed around him. He lifted a hand off from where it had been grasping hold of Phil’s hip and touched Phil’s chin, urging his head to turn so they could kiss sloppily over Phil’s shoulder. “Fuckin’ love it when you—”

Phil twisted slightly, did something with his hips that caused Clint to cry out into Phil’s mouth—cry out and tighten his fingers around Phil’s cock, which caused a chain reaction: Phil gasped and came, his ass tightening around Clint’s cock, which in turn made the heat pooling there erupt as he emptied himself, shaking and panting.

They both stilled, panting heavily, until Phil let out a groan and sank face down into the bed, Clint following, his cock slipping out and his arms tightening around Phil’s chest.

“God, I love that,” Phil said long minutes later, after they’d caught their breath and he was playing with Clint’s fingers, the gold of their wedding rings occasionally glinting in the low light of their bedroom.

“Love _you_ ,” Clint stressed, nuzzling his nose into the space between Phil’s shoulder blades. “And not that I’m complaining, but weren’t we supposed to be headed to Steve and Bucky’s, uh, whatever, that thing? What set this off? You never let me show up late to that kinda thing.”

Phil hummed, dropping Clint’s hand, and sighed. “Only the bane of my existence, that which I have no defense against… the sheer unfairness of it all. I couldn’t resist.”

Clint used the release of his hand to full effect, turning it over and running it through Phil’s chest hair, smiling into Phil’s back—Phil always got loquacious after a good fucking. “Mmm?” he asked. “What’s that? Couldn’t resist what?”

“Your _ass_ ,” Phil said, sounding exasperated. “Do you have any idea how good your ass looks in a tac suit?” He huffed. “It should be illegal.”

Clint grinned against the warm skin of his husband’s back, and Phil claimed his hand again, pressing a lingering kiss to his knuckles. “Sometimes I just want you,” Phil said softly, fondly. “Consequences be damned.”


End file.
